The Swindler, Ethel May Dell [distant reading TXT] 📗

poverty?" asked the Indian in the tone of one seeking information.
"I detest it," said Rivington, with unusual energy.
Dinghra drew a step nearer, noiselessly, like a cat. His lips began to smile. He could not have been aware of the tigerish ferocity of his eyes.
"I should like to make a bargain with you, Mr. Rivington," he said.
Rivington, his hands in his pockets, looked him over with a cool appraising eye. He said nothing at all.
"This girl," said Dinghra, his voice suddenly very soft and persuasive, "she is worth a good deal to you--doubtless?"
"Doubtless," said Rivington.
"She is worth--what?"
Rivington stared uncomprehendingly.
With a slight, contemptuous gesture the Indian proceeded to explain.
"She is worth a good deal to me too--more than you would think. Her mother also desires a marriage between us. I am asking you, Mr. Rivington, to give her up, and to--name your price."
"The devil you are!" said Rivington; but he said it without violence. He still sat motionless, his hands in his pockets, surveying his visitor.
"I am rich," Dinghra said, still in those purring accents. "I am prepared to make you a wealthy man for the rest of your life. You will be able to marry, if you desire to do so, and live in ease and luxury. Come, Mr. Rivington, what do you say to it? You detest poverty. Now is your chance, then. You need never be poor again."
"You're uncommonly generous," said Rivington. "But is the lady to have no say in the matter? Or has she already spoken?"
Dinghra looked supremely contemptuous.
"The matter is entirely between you and me," he said.
"Oh!" Rivington became reflective.
The Indian crossed his arms and waited.
"Well," Rivington said at length, "I will name my price, since you desire it, but I warn you it's a fairly stiff one. You won't like it."
"Speak!" said Dinghra eagerly. His eyes literally blazed at the Englishman's imperturbable face.
Slowly Rivington took his hands from his pockets. Slowly he rose. For a moment he seemed to tower almost threateningly over the lesser man, then carelessly he suffered his limbs to relax.
"The price," he said, "is that you come to me every day for a fortnight for as sound a licking as I am in a condition to administer. I will release Miss Ernestine Cardwell for that, and that alone." He paused. "And I think at the end of my treatment that you will stand a considerably better chance of winning her favour than you do at present," he added, faintly smiling.
An awful silence followed his words. Dinghra stood as though transfixed for the space of twenty seconds. Then, without word or warning of any sort, with a single spring inexpressibly bestial, he leapt at Rivington's throat.
But Rivington was ready for him. With incredible swiftness he stooped and caught his assailant as he sprang. There followed a brief and furious struggle, and then the Indian found himself slowly but irresistibly forced backwards across the Englishman's knee. He had a vision of pale blue eyes that were too grimly ironical to be angry, and the next moment he was sitting on the floor, two muscular hands holding him down.
"Not to-night," said the leisurely voice above him. "To-morrow, if you like, we will begin the cure. Go home now and think it over."
And with that he was free. But he sat for a second too infuriated to speak or move. Then, like lightning, he was on his feet.
They stood face to face for an interval that was too pregnant with fierce mental strife to be timed by seconds. Then, with clenched hands, in utter silence, Dinghra turned away. He went softly, with a gliding, beast-like motion to the door, paused an instant, looked back with the gleaming eyes of a devil--and was gone.
The Poor Relation threw himself into a chair and laughed very softly, his lower lip gripped fast between his teeth.


VI
THE KNIGHT ERRANT'S STRATEGY

It was summer in Weatherbroom--the glareless, perfect summer of the country, of trees in their first verdure, of seas of bracken all in freshest green, of shining golden gorse, of babbling, clear brown streams, of birds that sang and chattered all day long.
And in the midst of this paradise Ernestine Cardwell dwelt secure. There was literally not a soul to speak to besides the miller and his wife, but this absence of human companionship had not begun to pall upon her. She was completely and serenely happy.
She spent the greater part of her days wandering about the woods and commons with a book tucked under her arm which she seldom opened. Now and then she tried to sketch, but usually abandoned the attempt in a fit of impatience. How could she hope to reproduce, even faintly, the loveliness around her? It seemed presumption almost to try, and she revelled in idleness instead. The singing of the birds had somehow got into her heart. She could listen to that music for hours together.
Or else she would wander along the mill-stream with the roar of the racing water behind her, and gather great handfuls of the wild flowers that fringed its banks. These were usually her evening strolls, and she loved none better.
Once, exploring around the mill, she entered a barn, and found there an old caravan that once had been gaily painted and now stood in all the shabbiness of departed glory. She had the curiosity to investigate its interior, and found there a miniature bedroom neatly furnished.
"That's Mr. Rivington's," the miller's wife told her. "He will often run down to fish in the summer, and then he likes it pulled out into the bit of wood yonder by the water, and spends the night there. It's a funny fancy, I often think."
"I should love it," said Ernestine.
She wrote to Rivington that night, her second letter since her arrival, and told him of her discovery. She added, "When are you coming down again? There are plenty of trout in the stream." And she posted the letter herself at the little thatched post-office, with a small, strictly private smile. Oh, no, she wasn't bored, of course! But it would be rather fun if he came.
On the evening of the following day, she was returning from her customary stroll along the stream, when she spied a water-lily, yellow and splendid, floating, as is the invariable custom of these flowers, just out of reach from the bank. She made several attempts to secure it, each failure only serving to increase her determination. Finally, the evening being still and warm, and her desire for the pretty thing not to be denied, she slipped off shoes and stockings and slid cautiously into the stream. It bubbled deliciously round her ankles, sending exquisite cold thrills through and through her. She secured her prize, and gave herself up unreservedly to the enjoyment thereof.
An unmistakable whiff of tobacco-smoke awoke her from her dream of delight. She turned swiftly, the lily in one hand, her skirt clutched in the other.
"Don't be alarmed," said a quiet, casual voice. "It's only me."
"Only you!" she echoed, blushing crimson. "I wasn't expecting anyone just now."
"Oh, but I don't count," he said. He was standing on the bank above her, looking down upon her with eyes so kindly that she found it impossible to be vexed with him, or even embarrassed after that first moment.
She reached up her hand to him.
"I'm coming out."
He took the small wrist, and helped her ashore. She looked up at him and laughed.
"I'm glad you've come," she said simply.
"Thank you," he returned, equally simply. "How are you getting on?"
"Oh, beautifully! I'm as happy as the day is long."
She began to rub her bare feet in the grass.
"Have my handkerchief," he suggested.
She accepted it with a smile, and sat down.
"Tell me about everything," she said.
Rivington sat down also, and took a long, luxurious pull at the briar pipe.
"Things were quite lively for a day or two after you left," he said. "But they have settled down again. Still, I don't advise you to go back again at present."
"Oh, I'm not going," she said. "I am much happier here. I saw a squirrel this morning. I wanted to kiss it dreadfully, but," with a sigh, "it didn't understand."
"The squirrel's loss," observed Rivington.
She crumpled his handkerchief into a ball, and tossed it at him.
"Of course. But as it will never know what it has missed, it doesn't so much matter. Are you going to live in the caravan? I'll bring you your supper if you are."
"That's awfully good of you," he said.
"Oh, no, it isn't. I want to. I shall bring my own as well and eat it on the step."
"Better and better!" said Rivington.
She laughed her own peculiarly light-hearted laugh.
"I've a good mind to turn you out and sleep there myself. I'm longing to know what it feels like."
"You can if you want to," he said.
She shook her head.
"I daren't, by myself."
"I'll have my kennel underneath," he suggested.
But she shook her head again, though she still laughed.
"No, I mustn't. What would Mrs. Perkiss say? She has a very high opinion of me at present."
"Who hasn't?" said Rivington.
She raised her eyes suddenly and gave him a straight, serious look.
"Are you trying to be complimentary, Knight Errant? Because--don't!"
Rivington blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
"Shouldn't dream of it," he said imperturbably. "I am fully aware that poor relations mustn't presume on their privileges."
She coloured a little, and gave her whole attention to fastening her shoe-lace.
"I didn't mean that," she said, after a moment. "Only--don't think I care for that sort of thing, for, candidly, I don't."
"You needn't be afraid," he answered gravely. "I shall never say anything to you that I don't mean."
She glanced up again with her quick smile.
"Is it a bargain?" she said.
He held out his hand to her.
"All right, Chirpy, a bargain," he said.
And they sealed it with a warm grip of mutual appreciation.
"Now tell me what everybody has been saying about me," she said, getting to her feet.
He smiled as he leisurely arose.
"To begin with," he said, "I've seen mamma."
She looked up at him sharply.
"Go on! Wasn't she furious?"
"My dear child, that is but a mild term. She was cold as the nether mill-stone. I am afraid there isn't much chance for us if we persist in our folly."
"Don't be absurd! Tell me everything. Has that announcement been contradicted?"
"Once," said Rivington. "But it has been inserted three times since then."
"Oh, but you didn't----"
"Yes, but I did. It was necessary. I think everyone is now convinced of our engagement, including Lady Florence."
Ernestine laughed a little, in spite of herself.
"I can't think what the end of it will be," she said, with a touch of uneasiness.
"Wait till we get there," said Rivington.
She threw him a glance, half merry and half shy.
"Did you tell mother where I was?"
"On the contrary," said Rivington, "I implored her to tell me."
She drew a sharp breath.
"That was very ingenious of you."
"So I thought," he rejoined modestly.
"And what did she say?"
"She said with scarcely a pause that she had sent you out of town to give you time to come to your senses, and it was quite futile for me to question her, as she had not the faintest intention of revealing your whereabouts."
Ernestine breathed again.
"I said in the note I left behind for her that she wasn't to worry about me. I had gone into the country to get away from my troubles."
"That was ingenious, too," he commented.